


Sunday Night Special

by narceus



Series: Sunday Night Girls [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Other, Outing, Pack Family, platonic kink, so little actual sex, so much talking about sex, there is no way to accurately pairing-tag this fic, unavoidable utter asshole OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:39:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6167665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narceus/pseuds/narceus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Also, all this talk about BDSM AUs (which I don’t actually like, whoops) has me wanting to go back to ‘We’re Friends When You’re On Your Knees’ and write a sequel snippet with no porn whatsoever, where Allison meets a dude in an S&M club who assumes that seeing her in the collar means he knows literally anything at all about her in the rest of her life."</i>
</p><p>Xposted from tumblr (finally!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Night Special

**Author's Note:**

> Something of a long-awaited followup to _We're Friends When You're On Your Knees_ , this story has the exciting distinction of containing NO SEX WHATSOEVER. Because that's totally how you write a sequel to a popular story of pornfiction, right?
> 
> Seriously though, the most interesting parts of this 'verse have always, always been the discussions and negotiations _around_ how Lydia and Allison engage in BDSM, far more than the act itself. So this isn't about 'Allison and Lydia have been at this for years and look how good they've gotten at bondage and orgasm'. It's Allison and Lydia, who've been at this for years, and how those discussions and negotiations go when suddenly other people are joining the conversation, with all of their own history and hangups.
> 
> Also, if anybody is interested: there is a bit of an essay about why, exactly, the Allison and Lydia of this 'verse (which seems so set up for the 'friends-with-benefits-turn-into-lovers' dynamic) never actually get together in that way [on my tumblr here](http://c-is-for-circinate.tumblr.com/post/128079997640/so-how-come-lydia-and-alison-dont-like-end-up). It speaks to what the point of this 'verse has always been, for _me_ , at least.
> 
> Warning for asshole would-be doms and some forced outing.

Allison doesn’t have much of an exhibition kink, exactly, but she has an extremely complicated relationship with _fear_ , and letting Lydia take her to one of the clubs in San Francisco, truss her up and parade her around in front of people, is terrifying.  So terrifying.  And the ropes around her arms, the collar on her neck, are a little bit like impenetrable armor, like diving ten thousand feet under the sea naked in a transparent glass bubble, cobwebs that can protect her from anyone and anything.  Lydia’s hand between her shoulder blades guiding her around the club, and it’s all okay.

More to the point, _Lydia_  totally has an exhibition kink.  She likes getting to show off, getting to show _Allison_  off.  And Allison talked her into those alligator nipple clamps last month, so every once in a while, girls’ night turns into girls’ night _out_.

There are just as many rules for this as any other night they play.  Allison doesn’t go all the way down in public.  She’ll go partway, and she follows Lydia’s instructions as readily as ever because this is Lydia’s show, every minute of it, but she needs to stay coherent.  No orgasms in front of other people.  Nobody else gets to touch unless Allison okays it with the collar off.

(She has, once or twice.  She and Lydia have been doing this for _years_.  There’s been some trial and error.  There are a couple of regulars they know from around who’ll _hurt_  Allison, properly, the way Lydia still won’t.  Just every once in a great, great while.)

Mostly they do classes and demos.  Lydia’s rope binding skills are, predictably, exquisite, and she’s turning into a pretty good teacher.  All Allison has to do is stand or kneel or sit or lay there, head bowed low and breathing steady, while Lydia wraps smooth silk rope up her arms and around her torso, explaining every step in her calm, even tones to the dozens of people watching.

It’s definitely a head trip, but it can be kind of fun, if ‘fun’ is the word for it.  And then there are assholes like this.

“She looks good up there,” the douchebag says to Lydia, even though Allison’s sitting literally right there, coming down from the strange, drowning-dizzy rush of the demo.  Her shoulders ache--Lydia had her arms up behind her back in three different ties, lash tight and then release for the next one.  It _was_  kind of perfect, until this guy came up to them on the couch.

It’s pretty standard to get talked past, here, though something in this guy’s manner sets her off.  Sometimes Allison even prefers it, when she’s bound up in ropes and invulnerable-invisible.  She’s here to submit to _Lydia_ , though, not to every would-be dominant who thinks just because Allison’s wearing Lydia’s collar, they can treat her like a pet dog.  Lydia taps her thigh, a question--does Allison want her to take care of this one?

She could, but Allison’s feeling mulish in the way she gets sometimes after a scene, and letting Lydia do the talking would just prove the guy right.  She’s had half an hour since the demo, most of an order of nachos and a can of Sprite, so Allison’s got her head at least kind of together.  She’s got this one.

“Thanks,” Allison says, and just to make sure the hint gets through--most people here try to be decent, but sometimes somebody’s just a little slow on the uptake--she adds, “Parallel-arm box ties are a lot easier to begin with, but the third one we did can be really comfortable with a flexible sub.”

The guy doesn’t do any more than glance at her, just keeps looking at Lydia like he’s still waiting for a response.  Okay, Allison is going with her initial, now-earned instinct: this guy is a dick.

“Was there something else?” Allison asks, still perfectly cheerful.  Like hell does this guy get to make _her_  feel awkward.

“You’re going to let her talk out of turn like that?” the guy asks, still to Lydia, still barely even _looking_  in Allison’s direction.  This time, Lydia’s hand on Allison’s thigh is firmer--a warning not to commit violence.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Allison gave you the authority to determine how and when she spoke,” Lydia said crisply.  “Hmm?  Allison, did you agree to let him say a goddamn thing about it?”

“No, Lydia,” Allison says--regrets it, slightly, a moment later, because she doesn’t feel like letting this man watch one second of what she gives Lydia so willingly, but Lydia’s hand is on her thigh and she doesn’t have to care what this asshole thinks of her.  He doesn’t deserve her proving herself.  Lydia is going to smack him down, and Allison doesn’t have to.  She doesn’t have to.  “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“And judging by his behavior tonight, I find it hard to imagine you _would,”_  Lydia says, now talking directly to Allison, ignoring the asshole entirely.  “Still, I suppose some poor sub might take pity on him sooner or later.”

He’s flushed with rage, now, fists clenching in barely-contained violence.  Paradoxically, it actually makes Allison feel calmer.  She’s got Lydia to control the situation, and if it does actually make it to fighting, Allison can take him.  Even topless and barefoot in fishnet leggings and a black miniskirt.

“I was just trying to compliment your sub,” he says, aggrieved.  “Christ.  You’ve got one hell of a discipline problem.”  He sneers, turning to walk off.  “Bitch.”

Lydia’s hand stays firm on Allison’s leg, so Allison forces herself to stay down in her seat.  She’s been called worse.  Usually she’s got a better handle on her reactions, but Lydia’s in charge of determining appropriate reactions tonight.  And she’s doing her job.  She’s keeping Allison there in her seat and letting the asshole walk off, and massaging little circles on Allison’s thigh with her thumb, and it’s okay.

“Well, he’s not invited back,” Lydia says, so like her everyday self that Allison laughs.  “What, you think I don’t mean it?  I’m going to talk to Kirk.  He’s not welcome at our demos.”

“Thanks,” Allison says.  She lays her head down on Lydia’s shoulder and lets Lydia tuck an arm around her waist, comforting, solid, familiar.

“So, that upset you,” Lydia says.  “Three options.  We stick around for a while and watch some of the play like we were planning, we go ask Kirk or Madame Shelby about a private room, or we call it quits and go home for the night.”

“I don’t know,” Allison admits.  “He was an ass, I don’t want him to ruin our night.”

“Oh, he won’t,” Lydia promises darkly.

“I shouldn’t let him get to--”

“Ahem,” Lydia interrupts.  Ugh.  Allison is usually so _good_  about not policing her own feelings when they’re like this, too.

“Please fix it,” she requests sheepishly.  Lydia pets her hair.

“I just spent an hour showing everybody in this place how pretty you are when you finally relax for once, I’m not letting one asshole with an overinflated ego ruin it,” Lydia says.  “Back room?” 

It’s not their apartment, with the soft lighting and the carefully-installed suspension points in the ceiling that they hang plants on whenever anyone comes over, but seriously.  Allison and Lydia have been coming here for at least three years.  One dick does not get their night.

“Yes, ma’am,” Allison agrees, teasing and light--in all the time they’ve done this, she’s never called Lydia ‘ma’am’ in earnest.  Lydia tugs at her hair, not too hard but an obvious reminder.  Allison tingles, feeling all the newly-retensed spots in her muscles relaxing again already.  “Yes, Lydia,” she says, and she _means_  it this time.

“Good girl,” Lydia says.  It sends shivers down Allison’s spine all over.

.

And then, four days later, she meets Michael Nerium.  Again.

“Their family is very old,” her dad explains on the drive to the meeting site--an old abandoned barn out in the woods, neutral ground.  “They haven’t had much firepower in a long time, but they still command respect in hunter circles.  Michael is Jacob and Helena’s oldest son.”

Allison goes in expecting all sorts of things.  She’s young, but she’s been doing this since she was seventeen, and that’s a fair number of years now.  She’s dealt with Araya Calavera, Val Orion, Wilhelm Jaeger.  She’s the head and leader of the Argent family.

“Oh my god,” Allison murmurs, when she sees him in front of the old barn.  Her dad glances at her, worried.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“No,” Allison says, putting a little more steel and straightness into her spine.  Lydia’s not here to stop her from decking the guy this time, although her dad might not like it.  Well, Allison can be professional.  This man is a guest on her territory.  She’ll be perfectly polite.  There are four men standing there, maybe if Allison’s lucky _that one_  is just hired muscle.

The first thing Michael Nerium says when he sees her face is, “This is a joke.”

Allison’s smile goes fixed and stiff, but doesn’t slip.  Her father, who taught her at least half of everything she knows, smiles a little more broadly.

“I’m sorry?” her dad asks.  Encouraging Michael to let him in on the joke, and of course it had better be funny.  Allison would really rather not share this particular joke with her father.

“What’s a joke, exactly?” Allison asks politely.

“You’re the Argent,” Michael says.  “You.”

“Is that a problem?” Allison’s dad asks.  His lips are definitely still curved upwards, but you couldn’t exactly call that a _smile_  any more.

“I’m sorry, have we met?” Allison asks, pointedly polite.

“Sorry,” Michael says finally.  “No.  I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

It sounds sort of familiar, and judging by the little sneer going along with it, Michael’s trying to quote whatever Allison said to Lydia last week.  It doesn’t bode well at all that he apparently remembers it better than she does.

But Michael sticks out a hand to shake, and Allison takes it, and ohhhh this is going to be a pain in the ass.  “Michael Nerium,” he says.  “An honor to meet the infamous Allison _Argent_.”

Yeah.  This is going to go well.

.

Of course the first thing Allison does as soon as she drives back to pack headquarters, AKA Scott’s mother’s house because they’re a bunch of grown adults who still rely on their parents for things, is pull Lydia into a corner and hiss, “It’s _that guy_.”

“What?  What’s what guy?” Lydia asks, utterly confused.

“ _Michael Nerium_  is that guy,” Allison explains, then glances back towards the main body of the room, where Scott is being a good host and Stiles and Isaac are shamelessly stealing pizza and Derek is talking to her dad about _barbecue_  again.  Werewolf hearing is a tricky thing.  “From Sunday night.”

Lydia’s eyes go wide.  “ _That_  guy?” she asks.  “The asshole?”

“He wasn’t that much of an asshole,” Allison feels beholden to say, with the benefit of hindsight and the realization that now she has to _work_  with this man.  “He was trying to be polite.”

“He was _trying_  to tell me how to control my--”  Lydia cuts herself off.  “He was rude to you.”

“He was trying to be polite to _you_.”  At first, at least.  Just because Allison doesn’t always _like_  being treated as an inanimate piece of Lydia’s personal property when they go out, doesn’t mean it’s not technically _polite_.  “He didn’t know our rules, and you know we don’t always--”  She’s not having this discussion here, with at least three--oh, and there’s Cora and Malia, four different werewolves and a were-coyote well within earshot.  Their version of BDSM tends to be light on a couple of conventional sorts of _discipline_.  That’s not everybody else’s fault.  “We could have just told him.”  More directly.

“He could have asked,” Lydia points out, which is unfairly reasonable, too.

“Who could have asked what?” Cora calls over from the other side of the room.  

Great.  And now everybody’s looking at them.

“Going to tell us what that was all about?” Allison’s dad asks.  And of _course_  he wasn’t fooled by the ‘never seen before’.  Ugh.

“We were at a bar last weekend,” Lydia says, and _what?_   Seriously?  “Some _perfect gentleman_  was trying to hit on Allison, badly, and when we pointed out that she didn’t want to be talked to like that, he called us bitches and flounced off.  Apparently _that’s_  your Michael Nerium.”

Okay.  That’s…usefully close to the truth, actually, and Allison can probably live that down.  The way they’re looking at her, the Hales all seem to think Allison probably decked the guy in the middle of the bar, but fine.

“He clearly holds a grudge,” Allison says.  “But it’s fine.  It’s nothing.  He’s going to help us with the wendigos, and there aren’t going to be any problems.”

“If he says or does anything, you should let us know,” Scott says instantly, all concerned Prince Charming.  Scott would either be the world’s most perfect, considerate Dom ever, or he’d fall apart flailing the first time he picked up a pair of handcuffs.  He’s constantly, unfailingly taking care of all of them, even though Allison isn’t really his responsibility and hasn’t been for a long time.

(That or he’d end up like Allison herself, all pliable and needy for a couple of hours off from everything, but she doesn’t think about that.  It crosses so many lines, to think about Scott like that.)

“I’ll be fine,” Allison promises.  She doesn’t need Scott to take care of her, especially for something like this.  She’s back on the clock, silver bullet around her neck, collar securely put away in a box for Sunday night.  She’s got this.

“Okay,” Scott allows, with the same careful, familiar weight so many of their dealings have these days.  Almost a dozen people in this room, all of them brilliant, dangerous, even deadly, and between the two of them Scott and Allison could command them all.  “So let’s talk about this wendigo situation.”

.

Of course it all goes slightly worse than expected, which is basically exactly normal.

First of all, Allison tries to talk to Michael in private.

“Listen,” she says.  “Our first meeting was awkward, and everyone was rude.  I was a little touchy, and Lydia can be…defensive.  I’d like to apologize.”

Michael shakes his head and snorts.  “You know, when they said the Argents had gone to the dogs, we all thought they meant wolves, not bitches,” he says wonderingly.

Allison blinks in shock.  “ _Excuse me?”_

“I just want to know who the redhead is who thinks she can pull the strings on one of the most well-known hunting families in the country,” Michael says.  “Lydia?  I can’t believe you’re settling for that.”

“I’m sorry, you still seem to be mistaken about the nature of this relationship,” Allison says.  “Let me fix my mistake by clarifying, now.  What Lydia and I do together is our own personal, private business.  Nobody pulls the strings on the Argent family but me.  You’re not invited to comment on either.”  Firm, direct, to the point.  “I apologize for not being as blunt as possible in the first place, and that is all the ground you’ll find you get from me.”  He thinks he knows something about her because he met her in a collar?  Allison was trained by her mother, coached by Araya Calavera, and has held Beacon Hills in the Argent name for over seven years.  She leans in.  “Now you get to apologize for insulting me, my family, my allies, and my _friend_.”  Or else.

Michael laughs.  Allison can’t even find the words.  He holds up his hands, soothing, placating, and the expression on his face is actually _friendly_.

“I’m sorry if you thought I insulted you,” he says.  “Like I said the other night, it was a compliment.  You look good tied up.”

That’s…she’s…Allison cannot break the jaw, nose, six ribs, and both clavicles of the eldest son of one of the oldest hunting families ever to work in America.  Right?

“Daddy doesn’t even know, does he?” Michael shakes his head again, tsking.  “You’re out here trying to run this whole dynasty by yourself, and the only place you want to be is collared at somebody’s heels.  No wonder you’ve been playing with alpha werewolves.”

“You will apologize,” Allison says, tight, tight, every muscle of her tight, almost quivering with control.  She’s not a child.  If Michael goads her into physical assault, she loses.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of!”  He waves her away like nothing.  “You know you’re meant to submit.  I could see it on your face at the club.  The more you try to fight it, the worse it just keeps going for you, right?  You’ve got werewolves running half of Beacon Hills, and now you’ve got this wendigo problem, and that redhead isn’t doing a thing to take it all away.  You need someone better.”

She stares.  Allison just _stares_.  “Are you _hitting on me_?” she asks, in complete and total bafflement.

“I’m offering you something,” he says.  “A chance to see what a real dom can do for you.  You’re never going to feel right with someone when you know you can take her down in a fight.”

“Oh, you are about two words away from seeing what I can do in a fight,” Allison promises him.  “You really want to stop talking now.”

“I don’t take orders,” Michael says, in a chiding, explaining tone.  “I give--”

Allison punches him in the face.

.

“So how did it--” Stiles starts, when Allison thunders back into Scott’s house.

“Somebody needs to stand between me and him any time we have to be in the same room together,” Allison says.  “He can stay _only_  until we get the wendigo situation sorted out, because we need the arrangement with his mother to have somewhere to put them, and maybe, _if_  I’m feeling generous, I’ll consider doing business with the rest of his family ever again.”

“Um,” Stiles says.  “Wow?”

“Are you okay?” Scott asks.  Allison shakes her right hand to test it.

“Not even sore,” she says truthfully.

.

She tells Lydia the details later, at home, with the lights comfortably low and something soothing on the stereo.  It’s Sunday night again, but Allison’s too exhausted from the week of wendigo hunting for anything intense and anyway Lydia’s feeling bloated and period-crampy, so they’re going low-key.  Allison’s elbows are tied to each other behind her back and her eyes are firmly closed, and Lydia’s giving her a manicure.

“Hold your hands very very still,” Lydia orders, and of course Allison complies.  The ball of Lydia’s thumb digging into Allison’s palm makes her shiver and melt.

“Yes, Lydia,” Allison agrees.

“He’s clearly missing so much,” Lydia comments, back to the topic of conversation.  “You can’t have _this_  if you’re a creepy, rapey asshole.”

“Mmmm,” Allison agrees.

“When I’m done with your hands, I’ll do your feet,” Lydia says.  The first brush of polish is cold, even through her nail, to Allison’s oversensitized fingers.  “And then maybe I’ll tie your calves together so you don’t move your toes while I play with your hair.”

“Mmm,” Allison says again.  “Thanks, Lydia.”

.

It’s not the end of it, of course.  There’s still work to be done, and Michael may be fuming, with a purple-black bruise around his broken zygomatic arch, but he’s still _here_.

He’s polite to Allison’s dad, who keeps looking between Michael and Allison with a funny smile like he’s not sure whether to be disappointed or finish the job Allison’s started.  He gets along fine with Kira, who always winces apologetically in Allison’s direction after they have another cordial conversation, and even seems to respect Stiles, which is both weird and completely predictable at the same time.  Stiles, being Stiles, is basically about two inches away from accusing Michael of being a wendigo himself, but he’s also white, male, straight-passing, human, and Allison and Lydia’s longtime secret vote for most likely among their pack to prefer to dom exclusively in kink situations.  Of course Michael likes him.

(Allison still remembers the stories about duct tape and lacrosse balls back in high school.  Derek, they both agree, is the subbiest sub to ever walk around uncollared, and Lydia at least is convinced he’s played before.  They’re split on whether Cora’s more likely to be a pushy bottom or a no-nonsense top.  Kira’s either hopelessly vanilla or the kind of wild, kinky sub who wants to try absolutely everything and needs to be protected from herself.  Isaac is complicated, a mess of control issues that Allison remembers too well, but he’d be so, so tricky to dom without breaking, and she’s not sure she’d actually trust him with a sub of his own.  Malia’s got to be good at giving orders, they both agree, but there’s something so _coyote_  in how she talks about sex even now that Lydia and Allison aren’t sure BDSM would do it for her even if she tried.)

(…not that it matters, any of it.  Idle speculation.  Their friends and exes are normal, probably-vanilla people, and it’s not like it’s any of their business anyway.)

What _is_  their business is the way Michael keeps making _comments._ Spiteful, nasty comments that are going to get more than his zygomatic arch broken.

“Okay, is it just me or do all of the Nerium guys look at Allison and _snicker_?” Stiles asks.  “What the hell does this guy _have_  on you?”

Allison can only imagine what Michael’s telling his men, which means it’ll spread to _her_  men sooner or later.  Christ.  God, she’s got to get them out of her town.  She cannot deal with this.

“Actually, what _does_  he have on you?” Isaac asks.  “I mean, there’s the part where you broke his face, but…”

“I’d like to know what that was about, too,” Allison’s father adds.  “I still don’t seem to have a straight answer.”

“Maybe because he’s evil incarnate?” Stiles suggests.  Thank you, Stiles.

“He was a dick from the very beginning,” Lydia says, breezy and dismissive.  Which should put an end to it, but the whole pack is here so _somebody_  just has to grab the ball and run with it.

“What did happen at the beginning?” Scott asks, all perfectly sincere concern.

“It was nothing,” Allison waves him off.  “Just, a dark club and some weird assumptions.”

“Some guys can’t take rejection,” Lydia adds.

“Is that all?” Derek asks.  Of course he’d be the one in this room listening for heartbeats just a hair off from perfectly even.

“What weird assumptions?” Malia asks.

“Nothing, it was nothing,” Allison says.  Wrong answer.

“Wait, why are you being so cagey about this?” Stiles asks.  Damnit, Stiles, his ‘Michael is pure evil and Derek is always wrong’ train had been one of the only things keeping this all under control.

“It’s kind of weird,” Kira agrees.  “Um, I mean, I think he’s a jerk, but he’s nice to me--”

“Means it’s not all women,” Cora points out.  “Or he just doesn’t think you’re hot.”

Kira flushes, which isn’t fair at all, and continues, “I’m just saying, he sounds like he’s really concerned for the Argent family.  Like he really doesn’t think Allison can do…well, all the things we know she’s been doing.”

“He made three dog jokes the other day,” Cora reports, which is _fine_ and awful but only to be expected, for a hunter working with so many werewolves, except-- “They were all about Allison.”

“What did he say to make you punch him, exactly?” Allison’s dad asks in a very reasonable tone.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Lydia cuts in sharply.  “What Allison does in private is nobody’s business but her own.”

“Don’t answer for me,” Allison snaps.  Lydia’s trying to protect her, which is great, but in the face of _Daddy doesn’t even know, does he?_  and the whispers of the men and every goddamn hint and wink and allegation that Allison cannot do her _goddamn job_ …

“Oh, for crying out loud, Allison,” Lydia says.  Allison looks at her.

This thing is ridiculous.  It’s ridiculous.  It’s ridiculous that something so small should be any kind of judgment, have any kind of effect, on her _life_.

“This is so stupid,” Allison says out loud.  “Look at this.  It’s stupid.”

“Well, then?” Lydia asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Well!” Allison says in frustration.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” Lydia says pointedly.  Allison rolls her eyes.

“Come on, Lydia, this isn’t just me,” she points out.

“Are we missing something?” Allison’s dad asks, and this is ridiculous, this is absolutely ridiculous, she and Lydia are having a completely subtextual not-really-argument about Girls’ Night in front of the entire pack and her father because one useless asshole would-be dom thinks it means _anything_  about her.

“Oh my god,” Allison says, dropping her face into her hand, and Lydia’s not stopping her, so fine.  Fine.  “Sometimes, when we’re feeling stressed out, Lydia and I go down to some of the BDSM clubs in San Francisco for girls’ night.  That’s where we met him, and that’s why he thinks he knows things about me when he doesn’t.”  There.  Fine.  There.

“Oh,” Allison’s dad says.  A single syllable, almost a noise.  He very, very definitely wants to be anywhere but here right now.  Allison can relate.

“Wait, what clubs?” Stiles asks, for Christ’s sake.

“”Oh my god,” Allison sighs.

“Wait, but if he saw you there, that means he was there, too, right?” Scott asks.  “He can’t judge you if he was there too.”

“It’s not where they were, it’s what they were doing, Scott,” Derek explains helpfully.  Which means that now Derek Hale, who is not actually stupid and who is probably experienced in the scene if Lydia’s right, has figured out enough to picture her in chains and a collar.  Great.  Great.  Allison’s  life is complete.

“Well, what were they doing?” Cora asks.  Allison is going to just pretend not to hear her, la la la…

“No, seriously, which clubs?” Stiles repeats.

“Stiles, shut up,” Kira hisses.

“Stiles, I am not giving you a tourist map to the Tenderloin District--” Lydia says irritably.

“The Citadel?  The Armory?” Stiles persists.  “Did you go down to that little place on Folsom Street--”

“Stiles!” Scott sounds a little strangled.

“What?” Stiles demands.  “Do you not remember that Jamie was completely into that stuff?”  Blank looks all around.  “Jamie.  Super-short bright blue hair, we dated for like, a _year_  in college?  Come on, do you guys seriously not remember Jamie?”

“Can we go back to the part where somebody explains what Allison and Lydia’s kinky sex nights have to do with Asshole Michael?” Malia asks, sounding aggrieved.

“Wasn’t Jamie the one that you never brought to Beacon Hills or introduced to anybody because you thought we’d scare her away?” Isaac asks, with a little mocking twist.  “Really?”

“Malia, you can’t just jump from going to a club to _kinky sex nights_.”  Scott has a hand in front of his eyes, like he can block out everything if he wants it hard enough.

“Shut up, Isaac,” Stiles says easily.  “She was always wanting to drive down for meetups and demos and stuff, but she had 8 AM Monday classes that whole year and a lot of them were on Sunday night and holy _shit_  you’re Miss Elle.”  He stares, gaping, at _Lydia_  at least thank god, and Allison is just going to stand here and count up every mythological deity she’s ever even _heard_  of to be grateful that Stiles has never shown up unexpectedly at one of their demos.  For one thing, if he’d driven all the way down to San Francisco from his college campus up north, he’d probably have wanted to crash at their apartment for the night.

“Stop talking,” Allison’s dad requests.

“Miss Elle?”  Cora arches her eyebrows pointedly in Lydia’s direction in a very Hale sort of unimpressed way.

“I didn’t know you were into that,” Isaac adds quietly, to Allison directly.  Over his shoulder, Scott’s looking at her in a way that says exactly the same thing.  Great.

“Jamie,” Lydia says reflectively.  “Jamie with blue hair…wait, sea serpent tattoo on her stomach?”  She’s apparently planning to brazen the whole thing out, which is pure Lydia, really.  “ _That’s_  the girlfriend we never got to meet?”

“You _know_  her?” Stiles asks.  Allison’s a little horrified to realize she knows who Lydia’s talking about, too.

“It kind of…happened in college,” she says to Isaac instead.  After him.  After Scott.  Not a reflection on them in any way, not because of them, not anything to do with why Allison left.  And she could wish Scott looked a little less confused and upset, but he’ll get over it.  They all will.

“I just can’t believe she dated _you_ ,” Lydia says.  “She’s very flexible.”  God, so much for passing it off as ‘on very rare occasion’.

“Okay, _enough_ ,” Allison’s dad demands, before Lydia and Stiles can somehow get into a discussion of Jamie--who, if she’s the person Allison is thinking of, loves predicament bondage and only ever dates people who’re willing to switch.  Well.  She guesses it’s fair that she’s learning things she never needed to know about her packmates, too.

“This is not a helpful or a _necessary_  discussion,” Allison’s dad says.  “The subject at hand is Michael Nerium, and what we do about him is still Allison’s decision.”

Thank god for her dad, who follows Allison’s lead and Allison’s orders and also knows how to pull things back on track when she’s in over her head.  Authority isn’t always unilateral, and if Michael really thinks it is, then god, he must be hell to work with for _anyone_.

In fact…“Do we really need him?” Allison asks.

“He’s the only option we have if we don’t want to just kill the wendigoes,” Lydia points out.  Allison shakes her head.

“No, his _mother_  is our option for dealing with the wendigoes,” Allison says.  “We can catch them on our own.  He’s just here to get rid of them once we do.”

“What do you suggest?” Derek asks.  And maybe he has the knowledge to be able to picture her mid-scene with way too much accuracy, but if Derek actually knows that much, then Allison can picture him the same way.  Not that she wants to.  Really.  Moving on.

.

She doesn’t bother to go see Michael in private this time.  Fuck private.  If he’s going to drag her shit out into the open, then he can deal with her right out in the open too.

“Michael,” Allison says.  Her father is half a step behind her and to her right, armed and ready for anything.  Scott’s half a step back to the left.  There are six Argent guys behind them, and the rest of the pack with them.  It’s not a bad fighting force.  Allison would certainly take it into battle again.

Michael’s got the six guys he brought with him, outnumbered two to one.  Allison doesn’t really mind the unfairness of overwhelming force today.

“What can I do for you, Miss Argent?” he asks, wearing the smirk that Allison will so delight in wiping off his face.

“I just wanted to get some of our issues out into the open,” Allison says.  “Respect and authority questions.  Somebody wants to play little dominance games.”

Michael’s eyes widen, and then he laughs, sick and nasty.  “We both know I’m not the only one here who likes those kinds of games,” he says.  “Do they know what you get up to?”

“I’m pretty sure they all have enough experience dealing with actual supernatural menaces to realize it doesn’t matter,” Allison points out.  “Since I’m not actually in high school any more, I know that life isn’t actually a game.”  She tilts her head to the side, considering.  “Actually, given that I killed my first alpha werewolf when I was seventeen, I’d say I knew life wasn’t a game in high school, too.”  Poetic license.  Peter definitely died at least once in part by Allison’s bow.  Nobody here is going to contradict her.

“Then stop playing games and tell me what this is about,” Michael says.

“I’m proving a point,” says Allison.  “Dad?”

With one smooth, unhurried movement, her father unholsters his handgun and points it directly at Michael’s chest.  Michael jerks back; an instant later, all of his men are pointing weapons towards Allison and her pack, and she’s sure her guys are drawing behind her.  Allison holds up her hands.

“I’m not trying to start a fire fight,” she says.  “Of course if you think about the numbers here, we’ve pretty much already won, right?  We’ve got twice as many people as you, and half of mine are immune to bullets.”  The joy of working with werewolves.  “Put your guns down.”

Michael’s men all look uncertain, because they’re not total idiots, no matter who they serve.  “Do not lower your weapons,” Michael snaps.

“Dad,” Allison says.  “You raised me, you trained me.  You taught me at least half of everything I know.  What would you do if I told you to fire?”

“I’d fire,” he says easily.  Michael has to have figured out what Allison’s dad’s smiles mean by now.

“You would not,” Michael scoffs.  “Come on, Chris.  You’re smarter than that.”

"She’s head of the family,”  Her dad points out.  “She’s right about the superior numbers, and I assume she has a plan for explaining it to your mother.”

“Once you’re all dead, it’s easy to say you shot first,” Allison agrees.  “That’s how Gerard always did it.  Scott?” she adds, not a glance back, knowing he’s probably ready to throw her to the ground beneath himself in case she misjudged and this goes very, very wrong.  “You’re the alpha in Beacon Hills.  If we annoy the Nerium family, it’s going to fall on you and your pack.  What do you do if I try to start this war?”

“It’s hunter business,” Scott says.  “It’s your call.”

“This bluff is ridiculous and childish.”  Michael rolls his eyes.  “Stop being a brat, Allison.  Threatening to start a war with my family to prove your point is a ridiculous tantrum, and it only shows what you really are.”

“Oh my god, can _I_ shoot him?” Stiles asks from somewhere back behind her.

“I didn’t say I wanted to start a war,” Allison points out.  “I said that having your men hold guns on us and our superior force was stupid.  Even if they’re loaded with wolfsbane,” because some of Michael’s guys are looking just a little too cocky.  “You know a werewolf can keep fighting through wolfsbane poisoning, right?  Mostly it just gives him more incentive to kill you so he can get your spare bullets.”

They’re a _lot_  more uncertain now.  Just what Allison wanted.  “Hey, Lydia,” Allison calls, and doesn’t glance over her shoulder the way Michael just did at his own guys because Allison _knows_  who’s following her.  “Do you have literally any say over what I’m doing her whatsoever?”

“It’s Wednesday afternoon,” Lydia calls back.  “And people are holding guns at us.  This is the part where you tell me what to do.”

“I trust the people at my back,” Allison says, to Michael directly, steady and level and calm.  “I trust them with myself, and I trust them to follow my orders in a situation without question.  I didn’t say I wanted to start a war.  I said I wanted you to _put down your weapons_.”

 _Click, clack_.  Michael turns around at the sound of gunmetal on concrete, but it’s too late.  At least one of the Nerium guys has the sense and survival instinct to survive in this business, and when the first one decided to cut his losses and disarm, all the rest followed.  Allison takes two steps closer to Michael while he’s turned.

“What the hell, don’t drop your--” he blusters.

“Great,” Allison says.  “Now we can talk.”

He turns back around, all bluster and puffed up like an offended cat.  “You proved your point, you could take us with overwhelming force.  So what?  It doesn’t change anything.”

“That wasn’t my point,” Allison says.  “I just wanted your guys to stop pointing guns at us so we could talk.  My _point_  was that given our overwhelming force, we’ve decided we don’t actually need you in Beacon Hills at all.”  She smiles.  “And given that I just convinced your men to completely ignore your orders with you standing right in front of them, I don’t think they really need you, either.”

“You--” Michael sputters, but Allison isn’t about to give him a chance to talk.

“You’re going to head out,” she says.  “When we catch the wendigoes, we’ll call Helena so she can arrange for you to meet us for the prisoner transfer.  You’re never going to come back to Beacon Hills again, and if Lydia or I ever hear of you showing up around the San Francisco scene, I’ll break your other eye socket and then make sure everyone knows how Miss Elle’s sub humiliated you in front of almost two dozen people and then sent you home to your mother.”  Allison’s just not going to think about the almost-two-dozen people listening to her right now.  She’ll deal with it later.  Everybody behind her still respects her enough to be holding their claws and guns.  “And if you ever out anybody again, you can explain to any future partners you somehow manage to get why you’ve been castrated.”

And that’s the end of that.

.

Well, sort of.

“These…clubs,” her dad asks carefully three days later, concentrating very hard on the coffeemaker in the kitchen.

“Oh my god,” Allison says.

“You’re safe,” he says.  “And…happy?”  Allison prays for death.

“Yes,” she says.  “Happier if we never, ever talk about this again, but yes.”

“Somebody always knows where you’re going,” he says, shades of old discussions from high school all over again.

“Lydia’s always with me,” Allison says, which is probably TMI in its own right, but agh.  Her dad’s shaking his head.

“Somebody who isn’t there, in case something goes wrong,” he says.

Well Christ, they’re apparently going to have to start coordinating playdates with Stiles just so they never end up in the same club on the same night, so fine.  “Okay,” Allison promises.  “Can we never bring this up again ever?”

Her dad hesitates.  “Your mother and I…”

“Oh my god dad if you ever loved me stop talking _right now_ ,” Allison demands, hands going up to cover her ears and brain _burning_  with the mental images and all the times in high school her dad tried to teach her ways to get out of ropes.  Oh god.  No.   _Never again._

.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Derek says gruffly, a propos of nothing in the minutes before a pack meeting later that week.  For a second Allison’s struck by the fact that Michael said the exact same thing, but it sounds so completely different coming from Derek.  And, well…

“Thanks,” Allison says.  “And if you ever need…”

There’s really no appropriate way to finish that sentence, is there?  Derek’s always been too tightly wound, too locked away in himself.  He probably _needs_  a whole lot and it’s so not Allison’s place to offer any of it.  Especially not when the only thing she’s going on are years of tiny tidbits of inference.

She’d consider doing a scene with him, if he were actually willing to ask for it.  She’d share Lydia, at least.

“You should check San Francisco out sometime,” Allison settles on.  “Just not on Sundays.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Derek says.

.

“Um…” Girls’ Brunch is _very different_  from Girls’ Night, and tends to happen organically with whoever happens to be around.  Kira blushes down at her pancakes.  “So how do you find clubs like that, anyway?”

Allison and Lydia exchange looks, and instant agreement.  “You go with people who already know their way around,” Lydia says.  There are people in the SF scene who would _eat Kira alive._

“And you don’t ever have to go back if it’s not your thing,” Allison adds.

“Oh.”  Kira’s blushing all the way up to her forehead, which is the only part of her Allison can see through her hair.  If Lydia doesn’t keep one hand on her all night there’s going to be so much trouble.  “I’d just like to see…”

“Sweetheart,” Lydia says.  She leans over to pat Kira’s hand comfortingly.  “We’ll take care of you.”

.

Stiles catches her a few days later, fresh from the archery pitch in the middle of the forest, hands fidgeting nervously with his keys.  “So, hey.”

“We really don’t have to talk about it,” Allison says, although she’s already resigning herself to having this conversation individually with everyone.  Lydia says she’s already talked to Cora and Malia, but Allison had thought she’d gotten Stiles, too.

“No, hey, I already talked to Lydia about times and dates and stuff, and believe me, I’m just as glad as you are that Scott and I started Sunday Bro Night in sophomore year of college because you guys were always busy,” Stiles says.  “Jamie was always so ticked off we couldn’t be there for those demos.  Is Lydia really that good?”

It’s Monday afternoon, and Allison’s hips still ache.  “It’s _Lydia_ ,” Allison points out.  “You think she’d be anything less than perfect?”

“I am really regretting some of the things we didn’t do that time I dated her in high school,” Stiles mutters.  “Anyway, I just wanted to say, the scene is yours, I’m not going to be showing up unexpectedly or anything like that.”

She really shouldn’t, but Allison tilts her head curiously.  “You didn’t like it?”  He’d sounded enthusiastic enough at first, but now it sounds like he’s not planning to go back at all.

“No, I just…”  Stiles jams his hands in his pockets and looks around awkwardly.  “Look, can I ask you something?”

It’s Stiles, who’s probably one of the top five people Allison trusts in the world, plus she knows he’s going to ask _anyway_ , so she nods.  “What’s up?”

“You’ve been through some rough shit,” Stiles says.  “I mean, I know Lydia has too, maybe I should have asked her, but you’ve still got the nemeton darkness weighing you down, and I just…”

“It helps, Stiles,” Allison says.  “For me.  For me, it helps.”

He shakes his head.  “No, but I mean, when you’re…tied up, or whatever, does it ever remind you of times when you’ve been tied up for real and it wasn’t actually fun?”  Stiles toes at the dirt, and Allison thinks about it, the awkward way Stiles is holding his shoulders and the way Invisible Girlfriend Jamie disappeared, never to be heard from again, and oh my _god_.

"Tell me you didn’t have a PTSD flashback in the middle of a scene,” Allison says, horror rising up with a kind of awkward, black hilarity, because oh god, _Stiles_.

“Yeeeep.”  Stiles grimaces ruefully.  And because it’s _Stiles_  and he never gets himself into trouble just once if he can do it again..

“More than once?” Allison asks.

“Oh, yeah,” he agrees.  She winces.

“Were you always the one tied up?” she asks, because there’s really no better way to ask that.

“Nope,” Stiles confirms.  Christ.

“No wonder she left you,” Allison blurts out.  Stiles laughs.

“Yeah, no _kidding_ ,” he says.  “She did _not_  sign up for that.”

“You--”  Allison hits him on the arm in sudden realization.  “You never told her about werewolves!”

“Ow!”  Stiles rubs at his shoulder and glares.  “Yeah, because she was _incredibly normal_  and I wanted to make sure she actually liked me before I brought her into this bizarre world of ours.”

“Stiles!”  Allison hits him again, more lightly, on the opposite arm.  “ _Rule number one_.”  Be honest about yourself, your abilities, and your _experiences_.  “That includes triggers, dumbass.”

“Hey, like you’ve told everyone you’ve ever hooked up with all about the Argent family history and all the shit you’ve been through,” Stiles snarks back.

“I’ve never _been_  with anyone without Lydia there to supervise,” Allison says.  Stiles blinks.

“Wait, really?” he asks.  “So when you were dating that guy last year for like six months.”

“Do you want me to keep hitting you?” Allison asks.  And she’d been with John for about a month and a half.  He’d been okay with Girls’ Night, but the idea of having to explain literally any other part of her life to him…just no.  “Nobody I’ve ever done a scene with.  And Lydia and I have been at this long enough to actually know our own triggers and what we need to mention.”

“I can’t believe you guys kept this a secret for so long.”  Stiles shakes his head.  “How do the werewolves not _smell_  it?”

"Because our werewolf friends are polite and don’t comment on whether it smells like you’ve been jerking off in your own home,” Allison points out.  “And most people’s minds don’t go directly to _platonic bondage_.”

“Most people’s loss, obviously,” Stiles says.  “Anyway, that’s fine for you and Lydia, but if that’s your solution then until someone else in the pack suddenly shows up with an interest in S&M, I’m stuck playing vanilla for a while.”

Allison considers mentioning Kira’s apparently upcoming little outing, but for so many reasons, _no_.  Instead, she grins.  “Lydia and I are pretty sure Derek used to sub semi-regularly in New York.”

The look on Stiles’ face is worth this whole conversation.  “Someone I actually _like!”_ Stiles protests, while Allison dissolves into laughter.  “Seriously, Allison, you’re _cruel_.  Do you and Lydia switch?  Because you’re _cruel_.”

“She doesn’t,” Allison says, when she can breathe through the laughter again.  “I do.”  Maybe she’s a little crueler than Lydia--a lot more willing to use a paddle, definitely, although Lydia knows plenty of ways to make someone suffer without impact play coming into it at all--but nobody’s ever complained.  At least, not afterwards.  “Sometimes,” she adds, because nine nights in ten it’s still just the two of them at home, and that’s plenty.

“Huh,” Stiles says, thoughtful look on, and this is all treading a little too far into territory Allison doesn’t necessarily want to be covering with somebody she regularly sees with all her clothes on.

“And that’s all we’re going to say about that,” Allison declares.  “Walk me back to my car.”

It’s kind of nice, though, having an actual friend other than Lydia who knows things about the scene.  Comfortable.  Freeing.

She hadn’t been lonely before, but maybe she feels just a little less alone.

.

“So are you and Lydia dating, or what?” Isaac asks.  They’re stuck in the car for a stakeout together, no quick escape.  Allison sighs.

“We’re not dating,” she says.  They’d tried once, for about two weeks during their junior year of college.  If nothing else, they now know they’re hilariously sexually incompatible for anything _other_  than bondage and D/s play.

“So you go to pick up other people together,” Isaac says.

“How did this become the entire pack’s business?” Allison asks.  Isaac shrugs.

“Just wondering why it’s been some big secret,” he says.

“Because we didn’t want to deal with everybody in the pack acting like it was some big thing when it’s none of your business,” Allison says.  “It doesn’t affect anything.”

“If it doesn’t matter, why lie about it?” Isaac asks.

“Because when we were lying about it, I didn’t have to explain myself to you,” Allison points out sweetly, with a smile she learned from her dad.

“Fine,” Isaac says.  “I’m not asking.”  He keeps glancing at her, though, and fiddling with the ends of the scarf tied around his neck for the entire night.

.

“I just wanted to say that I don’t care,” Cora tells her flatly.  “You and Lydia can do what you want.”

Allison blinks, sleep-blurred, at the werewolf in the doorway to her apartment.  “Okay?” she says.  It’s 1 AM.

“You can tell her I said that, too,” Cora adds.  Allison blinks some more.

“Did you want to tell her yourself?” she asks.

“No,” says Cora.  “That’s it.”

Allison does not begin to understand the weird, possibly-flirtatious animosity thing Lydia and Cora have going on.  “Lydia dates girls sometimes,” she says.  “Other than me.”  At least, as much as Lydia really dates anybody.  “At least, she sleeps with girls sometimes?”  Usually without the handcuffs.

“I don’t care,” Cora repeats.  Which is why she’s here at one in the morning.

“Okay,” Allison says.  “I’m going to bed now.”

.

“Are you going to ask me about my sex life too?” Allison asks Malia wearily, because Malia keeps looking at her.  She’s not even getting into how much of it isn’t really a sex thing.  They’re in Scott’s mother’s living room.  Half the pack is there.  Melissa is upstairs.  She doesn’t even care any more.

“Yeah,” Malia says.  “Why is everybody acting like we didn’t already know, and why does everybody care?”

Scott chokes on thin air.  “You _knew_?”  He’s the only other person who hasn’t cornered Allison yet, so there’s that.

“It was supposed to be a secret?” Malia asks.  “They always smell like each other on Monday mornings, and there’s a whole trunk of ropes and stuff that reeks like sex under Lydia’s bed.”

Allison stares.  “You were looking for a crossbow?” she asks.

“Nope, I just wanted to see what it was,” Malia says unabashedly.  She twists around in her seat to look around the room.  “Come on, am I the only one who looks in everybody’s houses?”

“Please don’t do that,” Scott requests.  Allison takes a mental note of the pained looks in the room and wonders idly what Malia’s apparently found in everybody else’s home.

“At least don’t _talk_  about it later,” Stiles adds.  “Everybody knows when you go snooping at your friends’ places you don’t say anything about it.”

“Yeah, I figured that’s why we just never talked about Lydia and Allison’s weird kinky sex stuff,” Malia says.  “Just like we never talk about--”

“Anything we never talk about is for a reason,” Scott says firmly.  “And that includes anything Allison and Lydia do.”

“I just wanted to know what the big deal was,” Malia says.  “You’re all acting like it’s some big thing.  Why am I supposed to care if Allison lets Lydia tie her up and take pictures of her?”

Oh, Christ, she saw the pictures.  They need to put a lock on that trunk.  Or burn everything inside it.  Or both.

“Okay!” Allison says, too loudly and too brightly.  “So, Lydia and Isaac will be here with those pizzas soon.  In the mean time, wendigoes!”

.

They see Michael one last time, for the prisoner transfer, out by the very edge of town.  With Eichen House a charred pit in the ground, they need _somewhere_  to put the creatures they can’t just kill.

He’s stiltedly polite in front of Allison’s father and Scott.  The moment he and Allison are somewhat alone behind the large van he’ll be driving back to New York, he tries to put his hand on her wrist.

Allison has him on the ground groaning and clutching his balls three seconds later.  She doesn’t break his arm--he’ll need that to drive.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” she asks.  “You don’t have permission.  And it’s never been  _hers_  you need, it’s mine.”

She jabs him in the thigh with the toe of her boot, right where she knows it’ll knot, because this has been a hellish couple of weeks and sometimes Allison’s a little petty.  “Get the fuck out of my state.”

Her dad and Scott are waiting, wendigoes loaded and ready.  “All set?” her dad asks.

“We have an understanding,” Allison agrees.

“You okay?” Scott asks.  He had to have heard everything.  Allison wonders if he understood any of it.

“I’m not the one who’s going to be driving three thousand miles cross-country with a set of badly bruised balls,” Allison says cheerfully.  “Let’s go home.”

.

“So have they all cornered you yet?” Lydia asks dryly.  She adds another sprinkle of soy sauce to the frying pan.  Allison pulls two beers out of the back of the fridge, because it’s Saturday night and they _deserve_  it.

“All except Scott,” she confirms.  “Did you talk to Cora?”

“She had a few choice words to say about ‘Miss Elle’,” Lydia reports.  “I don’t know how Stiles figured out--”

“You mean the notorious master of rope bondage, the short perfectionist with naturally red hair who only does demos on the night we’ve been ‘unavailable’ to the rest of our friends for six years?” Allison asks.  “I wonder.”

“Yes, well, Cora seemed to think the name was ridiculous,” Lydia says.  “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Your shit’s still all over the table and I’m not moving it.  Couch?” Allison suggests.

“Fine by me,” Lydia says.  “You know, your _dad_  even cornered me.”  There it is again, that now-familiar horrified desperate yearning for the sweet release of death.  “He wanted to make sure we were watching out for each other.”

“Oh my god.”  Allison can’t facepalm with a beer in hand, but she can close her eyes and drink to try to kill the images.  “He tried to say something to me about my mother and I think I almost had an aneurysm,” she remembers, very much against her will.

“Well, it only makes sense,” Lydia says reflectively.  “They were always very concerned with being able to tie people up…”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Allison moans.  “Stop, stop, I safeword out.  Why does the world keep _doing_  this to me?  Stiles is wrong, you are so much crueler than I am.”

“I just have more practice,” Lydia says.  She sets a bowl of stir fry and rice down in front of Allison on the coffee table, and grabs the second beer before Allison can move it out of reach in retribution.  “Speaking of Stiles, did you notice he keeps looking at both of us with that same awkwardly wistful look he always used to have in high school?”

“I’ve been trying not to,” Allison admits.  “And I can’t tell whether Isaac is turned on, or…”

“Oh, Isaac’s one hundred percent turned on,” Lydia says.  “Have you noticed the scarf?”  It’s been tighter, the past week or two.  He keeps tugging at the ends.

“I’ve been trying not to look at that, either,” Allison says.

“And then there’s Kira, who’s either going to run away screaming or end up sobbing with her ass in the air by the end of her very first night if we’re not there to keep an eye on her,” Lydia adds.  “Let’s face it, we’re friends with a whole budding group of baby kinksters, and now we’ve got to be responsible for them.”  She purses her lips thoughtfully.  “Would you kill me if I just planned a whole pack trip to San Francisco and was done with it?”

Allison nearly chokes on her first bite of too-hot stir fry.  “Whether I do or not, Madame Shelby _will_ ,” she says.  “Can you even imagine?”

“We’d have to call ahead first, I suppose,” Lydia says.  “And not on a Sunday…”

“You want to bring Derek, Cora, and Malia all at the same time?” Allison asks.  “Are you trying to kill one of them?”  Probably Derek.

“You know Derek wants it too,” Lydia says, which is absolutely true but not the point.  “And I guess I can’t drag Cora out just to see her reaction for _my_  benefit.  Malia keeps asking questions about what the big deal is and what’s the point, though, and the easiest way to deal with that is just to show her.”

“Scott,” Allison says.  “Scott won’t like it.”

Lydia stops and looks at her.  “You still haven’t talked to Scott yet, have you?” she asks.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Allison says.  “He’s clearly not comfortable with it, and I’m not going to push him if he doesn’t want to.”

“You should talk to Scott,” Lydia says.  “You know, he carries as much around as you do.”

More, maybe--or just different.  Still.  “That doesn’t mean he needs--”

“It means he needs you to talk to him,” Lydia says.  “He won’t come to you first.”

.

“Okay,” Allison says.  “You’re the only person who hasn’t cornered me to ask questions or make comments about my weird kinky sex stuff with Lydia, so let’s have it.  Let’s get it over with.”

She feels kid of bad about how trapped Scott looks.  Especially since she’s the one driving the car.

“I’m not going to say anything,” Scott says.  “And nobody else should, either.  I’ll make them stop.”  Always so _good_.  Always trying _so hard._

“I can handle them,” Allison says.  “They’ve been my friends just as long as they’ve been yours.  What about you?”

“It’s not my business,” Scott says.  “I don’t have to get it.  Whatever you and Lydia are doing, that’s your business.”

“You’ve got to think _something_ ,” Allison says.  “Come on.  I get naked and let Lydia tie me up and do all sorts of things to me, sometimes even in front of guys like Michael.”  He’s not the first asshole, just the first one that ever mattered longer than twenty minutes.  “You have to have an opinion.”

“You want my opinion?” Scott asks.  “I’m really confused.  I really don’t get why you’d want to do any of that.  You’re not dating Lydia--right?”

“Definitely not,” Allison confirms.

“I didn’t even think you liked girls,” Scott confesses.  “Which is _fine_.”

“I don’t, really,” Allison says.  “Not like that.  Just…this is different.”  She’s got to be at least a little bit bisexual, all things considered, but it never really clicks the right way when the clothes are back on.  Which she doesn’t _mind_  Scott knowing, but she’d never really planned on having to _explain_.

“I just really don’t get what _this_  is,” Scott says.  “You’re just…so _you_.  I never thought you’d want to do--I don’t even know what you’re doing,” he admits.  “And you don’t have to tell me.”

There’s so many ways Scott could be saying that which would make Allison drop the subject, or stop the car and get out right here.  She knows what ‘ _so you’_  means, or at least she thinks she does: strong, together, self-possessed, in charge.  Michael didn’t think those things could go together with being a sub, either.  But this is Scott.

“How did Stiles explain it?” Allison asks.

“I kind of learned to stop listening when Stiles tries to talk about his sex life back in high school,” Scott admits, which honestly sounds like such an important survival tactic that Allison doesn’t question it for a moment.  Allison glances sideways at him, sitting there in the passenger seat, seatbelt so obediently buckled, trying.

“Do you remember the dragon?” Allison asks.

"Yes?” Scott asks, confused.  It’s pretty hard to forget.  Beacon Hills has only ever really seen the one dragon.

“We took off chasing it into the mountains,” Allison says.  “You, me, and Derek, we went so fast, we didn’t even think to bring a cell phone charger, or more food than I already had in my car, or anything.  And we cornered it in that valley.”

“For three days,” Scott remembers ruefully.  Allison nods.

“Three days, trapped in that standoff.  We couldn’t kill it because we didn’t have the sword, but we couldn’t leave because that cave was right by the only entrance to the valley.”

“I don’t think I slept for three whole days,” Scott says.  “And then Kira and Cora and Malia and Isaac--”

“They found the back way, through the tunnels,” Allison says.  “And we still didn’t have the sword yet, but we knew it was coming, and we got to lay down for a while and _sleep_.”  Right there on the ground, with Derek’s leather jacket for a pillow, it was still some of the best sleep Allison’s ever had.  “We just got to put the whole thing down for a couple of hours, because we trusted them to keep watch for us.”

He hadn’t wanted to lay down, either, but Scott had been just as exhausted as her, and filthy, and tired--Allison glances to her right.  Confusion’s giving way, but that’s not quite understanding on Scott’s face.

“That’s what it’s like?” he asks.

“That’s what it’s like,” Allison confirms.  “Every single week.  I give it to Lydia, and she holds it for a few hours until I can pick it back up.”

"Just like that?” Scott asks, and oh, that look, that tone--it’s close to _understanding_ , but wow, is that a quick complicated mess of emotions breaking there.  Wow.  Oh, Scott.

“You sound like you could use a few hours with Lydia yourself,” Allison says.  She keeps it light, something Scott could almost pass off as a joke.  Lydia would take Scott on in a heartbeat--and trust Lydia’s instincts to have figured out that he clearly needs her.  No wonder she wanted Allison to talk to him.  

“Me?” Scott asks, but there’s a little longing there in the startlement.  Maybe.  Allison doesn’t need to push.  If it’s right, Scott should come to it himself.

“She gives really good back rubs, you know,” Allison says.  “You can even keep your clothes on.”

.

“Well, if he really wants to,” Lydia says.  “It works a lot better shirt off.”

“I didn’t want to scare him,” Allison says.  The bed’s stripped, the sheets changed, the hanging fern is down from the oversized suspension hook near the window.  Lydia has a line of supplies on the wide ledge of her window sill.  “How do you want me to start?”

“Completely naked, on your knees on the carpet,” Lydia instructs.  “It feels like we haven’t had a really thorough session in a month.  And god knows what kind of time we’ll have in the future, if you’re promising me out to Scott and about to take pity on Stiles yourself.”

“I didn’t say anything about Stiles,” Allison protests, unsnapping her bra and letting it fall in a corner.  It’s just _sad_ , that’s all.  And maybe she’d thought about talking to Lydia about it some time this week.

“And don’t try telling me you’re not dying to try bending Isaac without breaking him,” Lydia says.  “I know you.  We have way too much of a pack on our hands, but I know you.”

“You really do,” Allison admits.  “Okay.  Let’s not talk about this any more right now.”

Lydia’s there in front of her, then, one hand on Allison’s bare shoulder, leaning in for a kiss that’s all sweet, familiar ritual.  “On the carpet, on your knees,” she says, brushing her thumb across Allison’s cheek.  “Collar on when you’re ready.”


End file.
